


Hungry Before We Were Born

by The_OrionNebula_Infinitum



Category: Red Riding Hood (2011)
Genre: A little internalized homophobia/general fear, Actually a good bit of plot b/c once I got going I couldn't help it, But it's totally necessary so fight me, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Lots of confusion about feelings and how to cope with them, M/M, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Probably a gratuitous use of commas, Some Plot, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25062073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_OrionNebula_Infinitum/pseuds/The_OrionNebula_Infinitum
Summary: Henry should, by all rights, be heinously jealous. But he sees Valerie and Peter together, and they’re sohappy, sowhole, that he can’t find it in himself. He’s satisfied to just be a part of this, to get to dip his fingers in the racing current of their relationship. He doesn’t feel cheated, or jealous, or angry. He is a little lonely, though.
Relationships: Henry Lazar/Peter/Valerie, Peter & Henry Lazar, Peter/Valerie (Red Riding Hood), Valerie & Henry Lazar
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	Hungry Before We Were Born

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Welcomed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22012570) by [yeaka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka). 



> _Uncover our heads and reveal our souls_  
>  _We were Hungry before we were Born_  
>  \- Fever Ray, "Keep The Streets Empty For Me"

Henry likes to think that he and Valerie make good friends. Certainly not as close as she was with Peter, and he probably knows less about her hobbies than Roxanne, but she smiles when she sees him, and he feels warmed by it. 

Whenever Valerie comes to the village, either to purchase food or sell her bolts of beautiful colored wool, Henry escorts her. He fills her in on his patrols and the goings-on of the people, the noises in the woods and who’s marrying who. She listens raptly, nodding every so often, and asks him if he thinks these apples are good. She never asks if he’s engaged, but he wishes she would, if only for the sting it would leave in his gut to admit he’s never found someone else that matches up.

They visit Valerie’s mother first thing, stopping for tea and leaving baby Cecily with her grandmother, and then, when it’s getting late, Henry will offer her and her child a ride home on his horse for an excuse to stay close to her a little longer.

“It’s safer than walking alone,” he says.

Valerie’s mouth twists with amusement. They both know she isn’t afraid of the woods or anything in it. But Peter’s been gone for a year now, and she doesn’t much like being alone in her grandmother’s old house all the time. So she’ll nod, inviting him in for stew and bread if the night is cold, and sometimes he’ll stay, unable to sleep on the other side of her bed. 

When Peter finally returns, Henry doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. At least now he’s certain that he’ll never have the chance again to marry Valerie, that their friendship is just that, and that it’s safe. Peter thanks him for keeping his bride-to-be company, and Henry tries to ignore the strange twinge in his chest. 

He helps Peter get Cesaire’s old job as head of the wood cutters, and, soon enough, Peter’s talking to him with a light in his eye about building boats, about opening the harbor at the edge of the wood for trade, expansion. 

“We could be rich,” Peter says, leaning into Henry’s space.

“I’ll build the anchors,” Henry agrees, grinning.

Henry notices little things about Peter, now, that he hadn’t before. It’s subtle, the change, but he thinks he knew the man well enough before to say that he’s a different person after his travels. Henry pretends he can’t smell the musk, the spice --doesn’t _want_ to believe that Peter’s a werewolf. But when his nose scrunches, Valerie levels him with a knowing look, part sympathy and part warning. If Peter’s a wolf, he’s _Valerie’s_ wolf, and she’ll protect him viciously. 

“You can’t tell anyone, Henry,” she says, hand on his arm. “Promise me.”

Henry shoots a furtive glance Peter’s way. The other man is much more confident now, as if he wasn’t already. (He matches his new wife that way, the pair of them regal in bearing, stronger than the village they’d been raised in.) And though Peter still slips between people and buildings like a shadow, when he squares his shoulders his presence _demands_ notice. Valerie, never spoken poorly of again, practically leads the town these days, children and adults alike coming to the edge of her property to beg for charms and spells, heedless of whether or not they’ll actually work.

Maybe, Henry thinks, it’s he who’s changed, focus growing to accommodate the pair of them. And what a strange focus it is.

Remembering that day in the woods, maybe four months after Peter left, when Valerie had whispered, _my father was the wolf, and I killed him,_ Henry nods. He keeps plenty of Valerie’s secrets. What’s one more, especially to protect his friends?

“I promise, Val.”

She smiles, relieved, and slips her arm through his. They continue on shopping through the market stalls.

By the cabbage cart, Peter is talking to Henry’s apprentice blacksmith, Oliver, animatedly. (Peter spends a lot of his free time in Henry’s shop when he isn’t sitting with Valerie as she sells wool. Often times they just talk, musing on plans and grandeur, but, sometimes, Peter’ll hover much closer, eyes as bright and hot as the flames Henry’s working with. They don’t talk about that, but Henry’s thought about it often, guilty with the thrill it brings him. He thinks of Peter looking at his wife that way, the intensity Valerie would return, and his stomach churns even more.) 

Presently, they’re working out how to make the harbor more inviting, and Peter thinks some hanging torches would chase the fog away. Henry thinks the fog is perpetual, but he doesn’t begrudge the other man his whims.

*

Henry should, by all rights, be heinously jealous. But he sees Valerie and Peter together, and they’re so _happy,_ so _whole,_ that he can’t find it in himself. He’s satisfied to just be a part of this, to get to dip his fingers in the racing current of their relationship. He doesn’t feel cheated, or jealous, or angry. He is a little lonely, though. 

For a while, Rose tries earnestly to get his attention. She makes him sweet muffins and sits with him at church. They even go together to the summer solstice festival, and Henry thinks she’s very nice, very sweet, would make a wonderful wife, but… She’s not Valerie. And for that reason Henry dances with her and accepts her gifts, but his heart isn’t in it. 

Rose knows this. She’s quick and clever, and she sees a whole lot more than people think. The night of the festival, Rose watches Henry watching Peter and Valerie, and she gives him a small, sad smile. 

“They love each other,” she says, wistful.

Henry nods, throat tight, and tries to convince himself this isn’t a tragedy. 

Rose presses a kiss to his cheek, leaning her head on his shoulder. Her voice is soft, apologetic. “I don’t think there’s room for you, Henry.”

Blinking hard, he nods. Slowly, pained, he says, “I know,” and then, “I’m sorry.”

She smiles a little, hugging his arm, and whispers, “Prudence doesn’t have room for me, either. Neither does Iain. I suppose love has made us both fools.” 

Henry feels a swell in his heart, a kindred spirit, and asks Rose for another dance. 

From then on, they become confidants. While the village crones whisper about marriage and proposals, they meet to talk about broken hearts and unrequited love. Henry feels a peace come over him, the relief of being known, understood, and hopes that having this secret shared means it won’t swallow him up from the inside. 

*

With Peter back there’s no need for Henry to escort Valerie, but on the days when her husband’s work keeps him away for long hours she still comes into town, taking Henry’s arm, and they walk through the streets. Her smile still makes his chest burst, her gaze always a little more fond than he knows what to do with. It sends snakes of warmth down his arms and up his back. He feels full in her company, the same way he does in Peter’s. 

Dumbfounded, Henry wonders sometimes when this complicated knot in his stomach started to include Valerie’s husband, too, and finds he never knows the answer. But Rose seemed to sense it, back before the air turned cold, so it must’ve changed a long while ago. No matter when it started, Henry can’t deny that he’s as infatuated with his best friend as he is his ex-fiancée, if for different reasons. 

“You should come for dinner,” Valerie says absently, handing over a few skeins of spun wool in exchange for a large parcel of meat. (The butcher’s wife likes to crochet shawls, and she insists on using wool from Valerie’s sheep.) “We miss you, and mother’s agreed to watch Cecily.” 

Stunned, Henry parrots, “We?”

Valerie looks up at him, amused, and says, “Of course.” They walk again, passing by a gaggle of children chasing a chicken. “Peter says you don’t talk to him as much lately. He thinks you’re upset with him. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were avoiding us.”

“I’m not,” Henry says, too quickly. Valerie arches a brow, halfway to scolding. “I’m just… Not sure,” he amends, certain if the wind hadn’t already made his cheeks red that this conversation would.

“Sure of what?” she laughs, leaning against a building. 

They’re far enough from the lazy crowd of the market for Henry to feel safe from prying eyes. He bites his lip, unsure how to articulate the warring, gaping feeling in his chest, and whispers, “I don’t want to impose. Peter’s your husband, and you have a daughter now, and-- I don’t see where I fit. I don’t want to ruin things.”

“Henry,” Valerie sighs, like he’s being silly. “You don’t ruin anything. We love having you. --And we wouldn’t invite just anyone home with us.” 

Ruefully, Henry knows this is true. Unlike the rest of the village, Peter and Valerie not only live apart but keep apart. They don’t have folks over. In fact, Henry thinks he’s the only one that’s been in their house. All the others --Roxanne, Rose, even Peter’s long-time friends on the wood cutting crew-- have to wait for the happy couple to come to the village if they want to have dinner together. But Henry, Henry’s practically a permanent fixture in their house. (Even though he doesn’t sleep over now that Peter’s home, and he’s been making excuses to stay away in recent weeks, afraid of the precipice he felt rising to meet them.)

“I just--” he starts, terrified of the ambiguity of his position all the sudden.

“ _Henry,_ ” Valerie repeats, smile soft. She pulls him into a tight hug, her head against his chest. “Just come to dinner. Don’t think so much.”

Uncertain, he returns the embrace. It does the trick, though, and he feels the tension in his shoulders release. All those rumors about Valerie being a witch were fake, Henry knows, but sometimes he wonders if she didn’t pick up the trade, living in those deadly woods alone. There’s got to be something magic in her fingertips if just a touch can calm him from a panic, can quell Peter’s worst moods. 

So, Henry comes to dinner. 

Valerie stokes the fire, laying a thin stone slab on it to heat so she can cook the meat over the flames. Henry makes himself useful and chops the greens the way she instructs, making neat piles of herbs and a bowl of lettuce. 

The house, massive as it is, feels markedly cozy. Valerie doesn’t keep over many candles lit --it’s dangerous for the baby-- but the fireplace is bright and the sun isn’t quite down yet. All the furs and wools and carpets layering the house make it warm, inviting. Her grandfather was a trapper, and her grandmother was a weaver, so there’s plenty to go around.

When Peter arrives, sweaty from work and tired from a long day, they’ve just set the meat to cook, the soup in a little cauldron beside it. (Chicken broth does wonders for the soul after a cold winter’s day, and many people in the village will even drink it straight when the weather turns foul.) 

Peter pauses after stamping his boots outside, trying to get as much snow off as possible, and he raises his head to accept Valerie’s kiss. As soon as they break apart, his eyes cut across the room and find Henry staring. 

Blushing, the blond ducks his head back over the salad. His neck prickles, but the couple exchange a few quite words of greeting, and then Peter is making his way through the kitchen. He pauses long enough to squeeze Henry’s shoulder, leaning in to whisper, “I’m glad you’re here,” before he disappears into the depths of the bedroom to wash up. 

Henry exhales the breath he was holding, unable to help a small smile. (These days, he’s please to find, the wolf musk is hardly noticeable. Peter just smells like… Peter. Like his best friend. Like Valerie.) 

Valerie doesn’t say anything to this, but Henry can see the pleased tilt to her head when she takes the herbs off his hands. They keep companionable silence while they cook, and Henry has to admit that everything smells incredible. His grandmother had no interest in spices, and Henry himself has always been rather terrible at cooking, so the dinners he shares at Valerie’s house always seem to make him speechless with their flavor. (Another thing about her that could be considered witchcraft. --Or maybe just brains and skill. Valerie’s got a lot of those.)

Peter comes out of the bedroom smelling fresher, a little like the citrus soap Roxanne’s family sells, and his hair is wet, scrubbed through. He wears a loose shirt with the collar untied, the soft white still a remarkable contrast to his smooth tan. He offers Henry an easy, curling smile, and gets soup cups and three plates from the cabinet. 

Henry, for the most part, tries to contain the thudding in his chest. It is _unheard of_ for a man and a man to be together. --For another man to be included in an already settled marriage? It is _sinful,_ filthy and corrupt and worth damnation. 

Furthermore, it’s not as if there’s a chance in hell it would happen. Peter’s a man, and Valerie’s told Henry herself, in not so many words, that she was uninterested back when their families tried to arrange an engagement. And, after all, Henry’s just himself, nothing special. He isn’t wild-grown and rugged for it like Peter, he doesn’t have the vast depths of knowledge and nerve Valerie does. Why would they care? Sure, he’s captain of the village guard now, but he’s also an old rival, and just a friend, and--

And, yet, in the gentle darkness and flickering lights of their home, so far removed from what’s known, Henry finds himself wanting terribly for both of them, the witch and her wolf. 

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Peter says quietly, helping Henry ladle the broth. Valerie is across the room keeping an eye on the steak, frowning with a firm sort of concentration as she wraps yarn around a handful of herbs. She appears to be singing, but they can’t quite hear the tune.

“I was afraid,” Henry whispers back, feeling the difficulty of admitting it almost close his throat. “I didn’t think you’d want me in your home anymore if--” 

Steadfastly, he chokes down the next flood of words that want to pour forth, certain if he tried to say them he’d asphyxiate. (They’re married, and Henry’s not a part of this, and why are they being so nice, acting like they might let him stay, like they want him back to chase that cliff-edge again and leap past it into the chasm of danger it promises?)

Peter smirks, shaking his head, and says, fondly, “You’re a _fool_ , Lazar. You belong here.”

Done with her song, Valerie beckons them over to the living area. Henry doesn’t get to ask what Peter means, and it nags the back of his mind. The food, however, is, delicious and straightforward. 

But even as they eat, chatter soft and laughter easy between them, Henry marvels over the tangled mess he’s found himself in. He’s old enough that he should probably be finding a wife, having children and passing on his trade, grooming someone to run his shop when his bones are too brittle to swing the hammer. But instead he’s training an orphan to be his successor, and he’s not even entertaining offers from well-to-do families. There must be something wrong with him.

\--But, here, in this warm circle of company, Henry doesn’t mind. He’s happy with his life as it stands, if not entirely content. Besides, the things he really wants can’t happen. He’ll have to make do. He’ll have to be sated by simply being in their lives. He couldn’t risk asking for more.

“It’s snowing,” Valerie announces suddenly, sounding positively gleeful. 

Peter looks up from washing the dishes in the basin, the cake of soap spreading suds all over his work-roughened hands. He glances at the window and then his wife, something chiding in his amused gaze, as if she’s the one that caused the storm. “So it is.”

Outside, a proper gale has started without their notice, carrying great throes of white powder and ice through the forest, quickly hiding the path. The house very well may be buried with how heavy the snowfall is.

Henry, having left his horse in the village for Oliver to use to make deliveries, is gripped by a sudden unease. It must show on his face, this fear of being an unwelcome guest, because Valerie hurries from the window to sit beside him, her winter skirts swishing around her ankles.

“You _must_ stay the night,” Valerie breathes, eyes wide. Her brow arches, expectant, and her hands are holding his, tangling together like she can convince him this like anything else, with gentle touches.

Heart pounding in his ears, Henry shoots a guilty look at Peter. --But the man is watching with that look, the one he wears in the blacksmith’s shop that makes Henry wonder if he’s about to be devoured. He feels like he might just catch flame under the heat of that stare. 

“I-- I could sleep on the couch,” Henry offers, gesturing to the impressive craft: the cushions are deer hide from Valerie’s grandfather, the frame woodworking from her father’s teenage years when he had a real fervor for it. It’s hefty and would be plenty comfortable.

“Don’t be silly,” Valerie repeats, a flare of disapproval in her tone. 

Peter’s drying his hands off, looking up through his lashes. “It’ll be cold out here soon,” he agrees. “There’s no reason for you to freeze, Lazar.”

Cornered, Henry’s gaze darts to Valerie, begging for assistance. 

She smiles instead, gentle as ever, and says, “Don’t think so much, Henry. Please?”

Somehow, Henry finds himself standing in their bedroom, down to his loose undershirt and braies, feeling quite naked and rather anxious. Valerie’s sweeping nightgown is practically see-through, and Peter forgoes a shirt entirely, the black cords of his necklaces teasing against his collarbone. It’s like they’re _trying_ to damn him to hell.

Henry tells himself fervently that this is just for the night; they are just sleeping; they are just friends. He moves to lay on the edge of the bed, but Peter sees an end to that quickly, nudging him over so the blond is between him and his wife. 

“That’s my side,” Peter teases, in lieu of a real reason. His lazy grin makes something burn under Henry’s ribcage with want.

Valerie pulls the heavy quilts over them and cuddles close to Henry’s side, her head on his shoulder. She sighs like this is exactly what she needed after the day’s toils, and Henry feels that burn spark into a conflagration.

Quite certain that this will be the last straw that gets him kicked out into the storm, Henry swallows hard and keeps perfectly still, focusing on _not_ noticing things and keeping his urges under control.

It’s hard to keep his breath steady. He hears his pulse in his ears and feels the heat of it across his face and chest. He can feel the softness of Valerie’s breasts and the hard leanness of Peter’s chest where it’s pressed against his arm, and he’s terrified of doing or saying something wrong and ruining the fragile magic of the moment. He’s terrified of being wrong about their intentions.

As long as he doesn’t break the spell, everything will be alright. 

Whatever happens in the cozy dark of their house in the woods, Henry can pretend it was a delightful dream, never letting it touch the light of day. --And if nothing happens, he can dream up a perfect sin, regardless. He can belong to the witch and her wolf for a night, if that’s what they want. (It’s certainly what he himself wants, but he’d never be able to admit it, lest he be struck dead from the heavens on the spot.)

The tension --the _anticipation--_ singing in the air as Henry stares at the vaulted ceiling, scarcely daring to breathe, presses against his skin and his lungs like a palpable touch, sly fingers brushing over nerves and plucking at the tense cords of his resolve. There’s a silent conversation happening across his chest, Valerie’s eyes on Peter’s face, and Henry’s honestly so startled when he feels Peter’s nose pressed to his jaw that he flinches. (Peter laughs, not unkindly.)

Valerie spreads her hand a little more across Henry’s chest, soothing, tracing patterns on his skin. She places a gentle kiss to Henry’s shoulder, weighted like a promise.

Peter runs his nose up to Henry’s temple, whispering against his cheek. His fingers are laced through Henry’s free hand, the roughness and warmth distracting. “Tell me yes, or tell me no, Lazar,” he says, eyeing the blond like he wants to-- to--

Heart in his throat, Henry exhales shakily and whispers, “Yes,” desperate for whatever comes next.

Smiling once, sharp and bright and pleased, Peter leans over him and kisses Henry so hard, so fierce, that he gasps. Valerie laughs a little beside them, quiet and fond, and nudges Peter aside when his tongue traces Henry’s lips. He falls to his side, hair ruffling with the motion, and aims a devilish grin at his wife, teasing her for having been first.

Sucking in air, startled, Henry barely has a moment to think before Valerie places a much softer --yet still firm-- kiss to the corner of his mouth, and then over his lips, short and curious and many to Peter’s searching, deep one. She traces her hand up to his neck, testing his pulse.

Peter, never one to be ignored, reaches for the ties on Henry’s shirt, undoing them deftly, and slips the linen off one shoulder. He presses an open kiss to the hard muscle, scraping his teeth like he’s considering biting Henry the same time Valerie makes a small noise in the back of her throat.

Henry shudders, mouth opening soundlessly, and darts a glance between the pair of them. He can hardly hear himself think, is overcome with relief and hope and this writhing feeling in his bones. Hoarse, he says, “Does this mean-- Do you--?”

He swallows hard, heart thudding in his chest, and Valerie whispers, luminous eyes wide on his face, “This is where you fit. Right here.”

(Henry won’t cry, but he feels a noise building in his chest, something broken and free, finally allowed to bloom into being.)

Peter leans up to kiss his forehead tenderly, like he agrees, and then tugs the hem of Henry’s shirt up, giving his attention to the tight lines of the blacksmith’s torso. Valerie runs her fingers through her husband’s hair, meditative, and glances at Henry, watching the array of emotions flashing over his face. 

Like they know what the other will do, Valerie captures Henry’s lips with a kiss just as Peter nips the other man low on his stomach, near his hip. Henry’s half-swallowed moan vibrates into her mouth, her tongue tracing past his teeth. 

Henry loses himself in their touches, breathless even when they break away from him to kiss each other. They’re upright now, Henry between them with Valerie in his lap and Peter’s knees bracketing his hips. 

Valerie pulls his shirt over his head, and Henry shivers at the chill in the air, at Peter’s body heat pressed against his back, keeping him upright with a possessive arm around his waist. 

“We want you to stay with us,” Valerie tells him, eyes locked on his dizzy expression as she undoes the button-closures on his braies.

“Move in,” Peter adds, inhaling Henry’s scent greedily, nose pressed to the crook of his neck, “And never leave.”

“The village--” Henry begins, unable to grab the vein of protest before it flutters away. Peter rolls his hips forward and Valerie rocks down, and Henry forgets what he was saying, hissing a choked, “ _god,_ ” instead. He should know already they don’t care about convention, about sin and virtue. Their love is transcendent, above the mortal laws of the village, and now they’re offering it to Henry. He can’t say no. He wants it too badly to care.

Valerie leans over his shoulder to steal a bruising kiss from her husband, nearly flush against the blond, and Peter growls lowly, the sound shaking from his chest to Henry’s. His hips buck, pressing his straining length against Henry’s backside, and it shoots a confusing jolt through the man’s stomach.

He shouldn’t like this, any of this, but especially Peter’s part in it. It’s wrong. It’s wrong, and he’s absolutely starving for more, for every bit of them that they’re willing to give. He wants Valerie’s soft mouth and hot chanel, Peter’s sharp teeth and hard cock. He wants to be ruined by them, to be laid to waste and used up.

“Henry,” Valerie whispers, urgent. She lays down, fingers curling the hem of her nightdress up indecently high. Peter pushes them forward, hand over one of Henry’s, guiding him to touch his wife’s breasts, to trace the twitching muscles of her inner thighs.

Chest nearly heaving, Henry leans forward and kisses her hard. He can finally have this, and no one can tell him it’s wrong. He leans back when Peter tugs at his clothing, helps kick the breeches off impatiently, and then Peter’s pressing forward, slipping his fingers into Valerie’s mouth for her to lick and suck on. 

Peter pulls away, fingers careful at Henry’s entrance, massaging the tight circle until he relaxes marginally, enough to fit a finger in. 

Henry groans, back flexing as he tries to adjust to the foreign feeling. 

Valerie reaches up, dragging his face down to distract him, arching against him earnestly. Her hand guides one of his between her thighs, to the wetness there, and he curses again into her mouth, seeing stars as Peter presses a second finger in, pushing deeper. 

He follows suit, teasing Valerie’s folds as she twists beneath him, searching for friction. She moans, tilting her hips for a better angle.

Over his shoulder, Peter’s breathing is losing it’s evenness, his composure starting to slip. He crooks his fingers, three of them now, free hand tangling with his wife’s, levering himself up by the strength of his thighs and torso alone. 

Henry cries out in surprise at the burst of pleasure, arching back, jaw slack. His own fingers twitch, stretching Valerie wider so she makes a high, breathless noise.

Peter grins into the skin of Henry’s shoulder, leaning down to kiss his wife with teeth and tongue, putting pressure on the blond between them and working Henry’s sweet spot. 

Valerie arches up, breathing heavily, and says, “ _Now,_ ” like she’ll break them if they disobey. Her legs are trembling, chest heaving.

Shivering, Henry lets her and Peter’s hands guide him, going where they push and pull, until the head of his painfully swollen erection is braced at Valerie’s entrance. He’s careful to go in slow, feeling her tighten around him, listening to the catch in Peter’s breath at the expression on her face. 

Behind him, Peter kisses the back of Henry’s neck, using a hand to line himself up and then pushing forward with keen attentiveness, watching the muscles in the other man’s back, the cast of his shoulders, for any undue discomfort. 

Valerie holds onto Peter’s other hand, squeezing it when Henry nods. 

And then, carefully, a growl brewing in his chest, Peter rolls his hips forward, the motion rocking Henry deeper into his wife. 

Henry’s fingers splay on the mattress, arms shaking as he tries to keep hold of conscious thought, to put in order the barrage of sensations he’s feeling. Valerie uses her free hand to guide his mouth to hers, kissing his lingering apprehension away so all he feels is raw pleasure, flooding him on all sides, burning in his lungs and searing his gut, hot and consuming.

Slowly, Peter builds a steady rhythm, working them up in increments until he’s practically slamming into Henry, thrusting him forward so hard Valerie gasps with every move. 

Henry’s hand slips on the sheets, forehead beading with sweat, but he wouldn’t ask to stop. This feeling is higher than any he’s ever had, inundating his senses and then stripping them bare in harsh waves. Valerie is tight around him, squeezing his cock, and Peter is hitting that-- that _point,_ whatever it is, and he’s being kissed on both sides and there’s hands tracing his skin everywhere, and--

Henry shouldn’t, he _can’t--_ But Valerie says, “ _Peter,_ ” and he leans them down slowly so he can kiss her, and his nails are digging into Henry’s stomach, keeping him close as he rolls his hips in a much more languid method, like they have all the time in the world to draw this out. 

The motion sends Valerie keening, face contorted with pleasure. Peter kisses her again, not far behind if the curses he’s growling are any indication, and then Valerie strokes the other man’s face, beckoning, and she says, “ _Henry,_ ” like she means to drag him down into the ocean with her sweet voice.

Henry shivers, arching into Peter’s motions, head hung between his shoulders. He _can’t_ but--

Peter, voice thick and low with something dangerous, whispers, lips brushing the blond’s ear, “Come for me, Lazar,” like a taunt as he rocks one last time, a low groan humming around his words.

Henry, vision going white, sees stars, crying out something that sounds half like a sob, the noise ripped from deep inside. His stomach clenches, spilling into Valerie, and Peter’s doing the same into him, and his muscles spasm, and his bones feel liquid, and the world spins, and spins, and spins.

The couple are careful when they disentangle themselves, cuddling Henry between them, his head on Valerie’s chest and Peter’s arm draped protectively over them both. They kiss sweetly over his head, and then Valerie kisses his hair. He dozes in the warmth of their embrace, plummeting so immediately into the blackness of a dreamless sleep that he has to struggle to wake in the morning.

The chasm, it turns out, wasn’t frightening at all, but, rather, promising.

Henry does as they ask, moving in, staying, and never leaving --the village’s judgement be damned. They raise baby Cecily and tend sheep and build boats and grow a garden, and their home flourishes. Their world is bright.

So it comes to pass, the witch and her wolf keep a lion in their bed, and the world is none the wiser.

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently the only works of mine that get posted are the ones I ralf up in one day, and this is just further proof of the pattern. *nervous laughter*  
> I hope this was enjoyable, and, if not, it was fun to write, and that's what matters. The only defense I have is the movie popped back up on the ol' Netflix, and ofc I had to watch it way too many times in a row and marvel over the beautiful sets and the music, and then, as always, fall into a shipping hole. As you do.  
> Hope it was as interesting to read as it was for me to try and get in Henry's head!


End file.
